


The Things They Say About the Forest

by Talc



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alchemist!Carlos, M/M, mythical Norse Creatures, nok!Cecil, nonexistant plants, prejudice and fear, probably no fricker fracking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2370827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talc/pseuds/Talc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Night Vale is a mountain bordered town settled in a deep valley. Around them is a forest, stretching out farther than the eye can see. The forest is rumoured to be filled with all sorts of terrifying mysteries and creatures, and the villagers of the town dare not approach it.</p><p>Carlos is an alchemist in search of rumoured alchemical rarities among the forest. Despite the words and warnings of the town, he left for an expedition of science and alchemy. He wasn't expecting what he found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Village of Night Vale and Its Many Superstitions

**Author's Note:**

> I just really wanted to right a norse myth AU for Night Vale. Honestly, no idea where this is going. Wish me luck!

     

The town of Night Vale, nestled in a small valley near the heart of a great mountain, existed in fear of the forest that shadowed the eastern part of the valley. It was dark, and dangerous, with trees that grew far larger than trees should grow, and so many roots and thorns surrounding its edges that trying to enter was both an impossible nightmare, and practical suicide. Dire wolves roamed the surrounding area, often trying to steal sheep or chickens from the farmland of the town, cackling loudly in the trees, their shining eyes glinting in the bushes, seen from miles away up on the hills, and scaring small children. Strange creatures had been seen lurking at the edge, ghostly white with sinister eyes, looking like mist or smoke, but too human-like in shape to be anything either than a creature of darkness. Hooded figures were often sighted at the edge of the trees, staring blankly at the town, and making a sound akin to an angry swarm of bees when one got to close.

Despite their words against it, though, the forest could not be ignored. It was the only source of strong, sturdy trees in the valley, and villagers would have to travel for weeks if they wanted to go through the mountain to get wood and tinder. In the harshest of winters, when crops failed and animals fell ill of disease, the forest provided the town with small game to hunt, and wild roots, and mushrooms to feed on. The town apothecary would not survive without the herbs that grew among the trees, the rare plants that they used to make their various potions an balms that kept the town alive for many years. They could not ignore the forest, for they needed it. Their little town would not survive without the tangle of trees that acted as their greatest ailment, for it was also their greatest resource.

Night Vale was such a superstitious little town. With all the odd gods they worshipped, the elves, dwarfs, and trolls they claimed walked the streets when they weren't looking, the nisse they said helped out all the farmers with their crops, it wasn't very astounding to find that they feared the forest very much, just as they feared the surrounding mountains, some going so far to say they didn't exist. They talked and babbled about the creatures that haunted the forest, the odd whispery voices that filled the air as you walked among the trees, the poison that the wildlife held. Rumours of huldras, nøkken, ellepige, and bäckahäst flooded the town, a high point of conversation and gossip. They shunned the idea of anyone wanting to go their for any reason other than avoidance of death (which even then wasn't much of a draw, as certain death was expected from the forest either way), scolded children who wandered too far away, shunned those who said anything otherwise, for those who defended the forest they did not trust.

Carlos was not from Night Vale. Carlos was from a land far away from this town, arriving in this small little valley for what he called 'research'. He was an alchemist, searching for something he didn't quite know how to describe. Something important, rare and powerful. He heard he could find it in the forest, heard many rumours of the sorts of rare plants, and fungi that grew there, which most made off as a sort of 'alchemists wet dream', as one person had so aptly put it (which Carlos found to be a rather lewd way to describe this, but he didn't complain). So he came searching. Immediately he learned of the town's strange nature. They tried to scare him off, pretended there was nowhere for him to stay, yelled at him for the bible he kept in his bag (purely for formalities sake, Carlos believed in science more than he believed in the church), shouted every single warning and curse they seemed to know. All was for naught. Carlos found a place to stay the night, and the next day he was at the edge of the forest with a satchel full of scientific odds and ends.

'The forest doesn't look that sinister.' Carlos thought as he stood at the edge of the dreaded woods. Of course, nothing ever appears to be what it is. Carlos is an alchemist and should know better than to question things like that. He slowly winded his way through the thicket that surrounded the forest, not seeing anything remotely threatening as he walked through the trees in early twilight. This seemed like any other forest. Birds chirped in the distance, light shined down from above the tree tops, making familiar shapes on the leaf-covered ground. It was a forest. What was so scary about a forest?

In the forest, there was no path. The villagers had feared it for so long that even the old paths from long ago had been grown over without familiar footsteps making their way over them. But Carlos had been in worse terrain, having grown up on a rocky mountain side, and it didn't really bother him much. Actually, he found the place rather peaceful. One would wonder why the town was so terrified of such a forest.  
By noon, Carlos stopped for a break by a group of rocks. He'd been moving about all day and all he'd found was some mint leaves that were drastically out of place in their environment, and a group of ferns that furled and unfurled far too quickly for normal ferns. He'd taken a bit of both, figuring they could be good for something, but otherwise his day was quite boring. Though, he had yet to have met any huldras or ellepige or even any wolves. Hell, he'd barely seen a chipmunk or a squirrel all day. He'd started to think that the people in town were under some weird hallucinogenic trance that made them think the bountiful forest around their town was dangerous. It seemed quite nice, in his opinion. The town was missing out.  
Soon, he was back to work, travelling through the unmarked forest in search of alchemical master ingredients. The forest showed him not malice, and he gave the same courtesy in return. And so he hiked. He hiked all day, finding nothing of interest by the time night fell. So, he set up camp, curling up on his night roll with some dried berries and bread in his stomach, and little else. He slept too peacefully to notice there were no stars above him, only a bright, white moon, and an endless void.

Late into the night, Carlos found himself waking to the soft noise of music being played in the distance. He groaned, sitting up in his bedroll with the expectance of finding himself back in an inn, warm sun or firelight upon his face, a routine headache from the local brew. He flinched when he realised he was still in the forest, lying in his bedroll as pitch-black darkness surrounded him. He fumbled for a lantern, slung his bag over his shoulder, and slowly padded towards the musical noise drifting through the trees.

It was lovely, he had to admit. Carlos was not a connoisseur of music, he could hardly tell a jog from a lullaby, but he couldn't help but recognise the beauty in the tune that ran through his ears. It was slow and haunting, flitting around a number of notes in a musically impossible fashion. The music seemed to whisper through the trees, move the leaves themselves as it flew around Carlos, almost cradling him. As he drew closer and closer to the source of the word, he couldn't help but wonder, at the back of his mind, why was he following this tune? In a forest that was rumoured to be dangerous and un-inhabited by humans, where would the music be coming from? he was too curious to listen to that part of his mind, though. He followed the music till he reached the source.

And what a beautiful source it was.

The alchemist stood breathless as he peaked out from behind a large tree, staring in curious awe as he set his eyes in a large lake, stretching out far past his field of vision. The moon reflected onto the water, bathing the area in the moonlight, almost like that of a bright, white candle in the sky.

Among the water's edge was a group of misty creatures, resembling something of humans, though lighter, more transparent. They twirled around, dancing with one another in the moonlight. At the edge of the trees, far away from Carlos stood, was a group of dark figures, apparently beings in hoods, turned towards the lake. A group of dire wolves was obvious a ways across the water, lazing about and play fighting. These were not the only ones gathered around the lake. Creatures of all shapes and sizes were gather about in various places around the area, playing, and sleeping, drinking from the lakes water, but most of them had their eyes set on one fixed point. And when Carlos caught sight of what they were staring at, he couldn't help the gasp he let out. That was when he found the source of the music.

A man, was he a man? Stood in the water, skin grey and seemingly shimmering in the moonlight. He had long hair that stretched far past his waist, entwined with flowers and veins, seemingly streaked with colours akin to the sky at dusk, or the moon when it wanted to cooperate. His ears were long and pointed, his face slim and sketched out like the statues of gods Carlos had seen in his travels. His eyes were closed, soft lashes obvious, even from so far away, content as the man played. And what was he playing? It was a violin of the most glorious design. Carlos had never seen an instrument he deemed beautiful, but this one seemed to be more precious than anything else he had seen. It was made of light wood, crafted with carvings of vines and flowers, its strings possibly of an unearthly degree as the music, oh the music, was so melodious Carlos felt his ears drifting towards them.

The man was shining and bright, decorated with leaves, and vines, but most nude, his kin reflected by the moon, the moon lighting his watery stage. The most beautiful man Carlos had ever seen.

His mind raced with the sudden want to put this entire lake to alchemical testing, or maybe to observation. Another part of his mind wanted him to walk to the water, to get as close to the man as possible. The smallest part of his brain screamed and yelled for him to bolt, to find his way back to the village, to run while he still could. He didn't listen to his mind, though, just simply watched.

When the musician's eyes finally slid open, Carlos's eyes were met pupiless orbs of violet, beautiful like a gem, but oddly unsettling. And then something amazing happened. The violet eyes met Carlos and the musician faltered. A discordant notes rang through the forest as the man's gaze widened, a dark colour flooding over his face. His eyes darted away from Carlos, song seeming to sound softer and quicker as it ended. Despite the mistake, many cheered or acknowledged the beauty of the song. The man took a quick bow before taking off, running to the far side of the forest. Carlos watched him leave, losing the figure of the radiant man as he disappeared into the darkness. He decided this was the best time for him to depart back to his campsite and finish the night in rest.

Despite his want of sleep, he spent the next few hours with eyes wide open, head spinning with the image of the lake, and the creatures who grouped among it. Especially one. One musician.


	2. A Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I would ever get around to a second chapter, but wow, I did...Hmmm...

Something warm and wet ran across Carlos' face, and his eyes were slow to open, blinking up at the dark ﬁgure before him, which shone in the shadow of the morning sun. It took him a moment to remember that, yes, he had settled in the forest for the time being, for alchemy. But this figure was foreign to him and confused Carlos' sleep addled mind. It seemed like a hallucination, like the one in his dream...The beautiful dream he had the night before, of a man on a lake, playing beautiful music...A dream. Yet, large, bright, and glowing by light behind it, a creature stood before him. Then the warm, wet sensation returned, smooth and soft and slick...A tongue, the alchemist decided. Through a haze of sleep, he had to slowly sit up, blinking drowsily as he stared up at the ﬁgure, eyes narrowing as if this would make the world all the more clear.

It stood on four legs, tall and proud, with hooves for feet, and long, sturdy horns atop its head. Sunlight itself seemed to be ﬁltering off the creature and Carlos brieﬂy had to recollect his thoughts, pulling away is stare, for it was enchantingly beautiful. A star fallen from the sky, a child of the sun itself, before him.

No...This was inaccurate, Carlos told his poetic thoughts. This was a deer; a deer with clear, brilliant eyes, and with fur of white and antlers of gold, standing over him, patient and conﬁdent, but a deer nonetheless. A cold wet nose was pressed to Carlos' cheek as the deer prodded at his face, urging him to stand, to awaken, to move throughout the day. So Carlos stood, keeping his eyes on the deer as his feet place themselves on the soil, as his hand is prodded once by the deer before they gesture to a pile of...Something on the ground. Leaves, Carlos thinks, but no that's makes no sense, too precise...A woven basket, maybe? Of twigs and leaves, vines and flowers, sitting before him at the foot of his sleeping cot. Yes, this was a basket. A basket of...Of something.

The deer prodded at Carlos again, giving off a sense of gentle annoyance, which prompted the man to step forward to examine the basket. Berries, honey suckle, wild flowers, and nuts, an assortment of eclectic wilderness edibles and wants, arranged by brilliant colour, many of which the alchemist knew he had never seen before but oh so wanted to divest his time into. And at the top, a crown woven of daisies, cowslip, and primrose. Carlos felt blood circle through his cheeks, though he did not know why, reaching down to pick up the basket. He carefully examined the contents, fingers running over the new and mysterious plants. He didn't even notice that the deer was leaving till the creature was already far out of sight, eyes too enraptured by the odd basket.

Of course, he questioned where such a gift had come from. In an uninhabited forest, who would be there to weave a basket, to intricately twine together delicate flowers, to carefully place the plants in arrays of colour? Who could possibly have done this?

The alchemist's mind drifted back to his dream, to the moonlight on the lake, the creatures of lore gathered around the feet of the most beautiful creature Carlos had ever set eyes on, the music he could not name swimming in his ears, so vivid in his mind, and could it really be dream? After all he could remember, his dream seemed too real to not be reality.

His fingers, calloused from years of work and wear, carefully traced over the wreath of flowers, lifting it gently in his hands, leaving the basket onto the ground to observe how carefully each flower had been patterned. The delicate stems had been braided expertly, not a single petal broken, missing, or out of place. It reminded Carlos of midsummer festivals he had watched small towns up north, not too far from here, come to think of it, celebrate with such joy. The young girls of the village would weave wreaths of flowers and each person of the village would have one over their head, crowning them as they'd dance around fires and feast. He'd seen the rituals of the village, watched as the unmarried of the towns raced to catch flowers on the midsummer's day, hoping that that night they would see their future spouse in their dreams.

Such thoughts left fond feelings in the alchemist's mind, and he couldn't help himself from smiling wistfully down at the woven wreath of flowers. Holding this in his hands, Carlos felt his face redden further, like his mind was bashfully embarrassed by the gift, feeling the sudden urge to place the crown on his head, brushing aside some of his unruly locks to nestle the crown there. It fit perfectly.

A soft noise akin to a gasp flittered from the nearby trees, and the alchemist's head snapped up to look for the source, only to see a shadowy figure dashing its way through the trees, far away from him. On a nearby branch glinted something small in the sun, unseen by Carlos previously. He abandoned his camp to carefully pad to the tree, catching sight of the object in question. A few silver strands of hair hung caught on a branch. When Carlos touched them, they were softer than hair should be, with human consistency and seemed so familiar, though he could place no name on the strands. Not one to leave behind something to be experimented with, Carlos gently took the strands from the branch and slid them into an empty pouch among his herbs, staring at the glittering sample as he slowly closed up the pouch, the light in them twinkling out once their sun was removed.

The sun itself was making its slow ascend towards the sky. The alchemist looked back at all the places he had visited and remember how every culture seemed to think the sun was something different. This was a marvel within itself, for Carlos had been granted the right to see this majesty in the eyes of every human he crossed, and no one, he found, ever seemed to hate the sun dark enough to want it gone. The sun was always something to be celebrated, and the alchemist knew that was why work was done in the day, a tribute to the sun.

Soon he had set up his equipment and was running tests on the plants that had been left behind in the basket, careful to only touch them with his worn, leather gloves, careful to separate each one. some were familiar, the sort he had seen often in many a place, though that which he knew was easily consumable. And whilst he worked, with the sun casting pictures of light on the forest floor, and the birds stringing a song that was not melodious, but conversational, he couldn't help his mind from questioning who made the basket? No one, he knew, no one would live in these parts with hands to tame and mend the strong grass and young branches. No one, he remembered, had dared stepped this far into the Forest in such a long time that the gods he could neither confirm nor deny were necessary, or existed, would not remember truthfully.

And as he worked his mind danced about to the dream he had that night before, to the figure in the woods, the hair in the branches. It was hard to stay focused on his work, but the smell of burning herbs was always jarring enough to tug him back.

Before he knew it, the sky was a blaze of orange, deep purples and pinks resting at the horizon, waiting for the sun to set. The alchemist groaned as he watched his work light fade away, and quickly finished up with his experiments, turning off his equipment in favour of building a fire. When there was a small camp fire flickering along in the night, he let himself pull out herbs and dried meats and eat slowly, drinking the last of his stocks of ale. He'd have to find fresh water in the morning, he knew, or else he'd be in trouble. But for now he was stuck with his flask of alcohol, which was certainly leaner than anything else he had on hand.

It was a trick he'd picked up from sailors whilst travelling from land to land, where they told him they mixed their rum with the water, else they'd find it dangerous enough to kill a man. Apparently, the rum fixed it. It definitely cleared up the alchemist's misconceptions of seeing sailors as hopeless inebriates.

Food settling in his stomach, ale warming his body along with his fire, Carlos sat at his cot and flipped through pages of his journal, running over his notes for the day. the parchment was fine written, though messy at that, and he focused hard to try and decipher his own words. It wasn't too long before his eyes started to slip, head falling forward and words blurring. Within minutes, the alchemist was asleep on his cot, journal lying sprawled on his chest, still wearing his work clothes, flower crown rolling from his locks to the forest floor.

So he slept.

-

A figure in the night; lithe, quick, dazzling dashed through the trees, holding tight to a wooden instrument in their hand, hair catching in the branches when they passed, but slipped away like fine silk seconds after their pull. Then the figure is standing by a fire.

 

The camp still glowed orange and yellow with the embers of the fire still lit. A careful hand snuffed out the flames, almost caressing them to be still. The figure then turned to the alchemist fast asleep, shivering in the cold air. Deft fingers plucked the journal from his grasp and closed it, setting it aside well safe from the fire. The same fingers removed the sleeping man's shoes and work coat, leaving him in his shirt and trousers before pulling blankets atop him, tucking the man in. With gentle care, they lifted the flower crown and placed it softly on the journal. Job complete, the figure turned to the man, kneeling over his prone body.

 

A silver hand reaches into soft locks, almost reverently tucking the hair away from a peaceful face, a quiet keening noise falling from their lips at the touch of the alchemist's hair.

 

Seeing the man still shivering, the figure sat by his side and holding up his instrument, carefully placing it to his shoulder before he weaved a soft tune of large notes and a slow movement. He played the fire, the sun and the warmth. The song swept out in waves, washing over the sleeping man, lulling his body to more peace than it knew it could stand.

 

By the time the morning sun had peaked out over the mountains, the figure was gone, a bound set of cat tails in it's place, framing a single, bright white water lily.  

 


End file.
